Kings and Emperors

“Captain’s chair, Major Hughes,” Lt. Harcourt, the officer of the watch, snapped, coming to the top of the larboard ladderway to the poop deck. “If you would be so good.”

“You hear what this … common enlisted man just told me?” Hughes gravelled.

“Didn’t hear a thing that passed between you, Major Hughes,” Harcourt told him. “This gentleman was doing you a service before Captain Lewrie caught you in his chair, right, Mister Deacon?” Harcourt asked, stressing “Mister” as Deacon’s due honourific.

Hughes scowled his dis-pleasure, went red in the face, but got to his feet and slunk off to the wardroom, leaving Deacon seething and Lieutenant Harcourt shaking his head.

“Do not kill him while he’s still aboard, Mister Deacon, hey?” Harcourt bade him. “If you need a second, I’m offering, however. I’m of a mind to be first in line, myself. God, what a pain he is!”

*   *   *

At last, HMS Sapphire dropped anchor and came to rest off the Old Mole of Gibraltar, and with that broom lashed to the main mast truck as Lieutenant Westcott had suggested.

“Might I offer you a lift ashore, Major Hughes?” Lewrie asked, once all the topmen had descended from the yards, after all sail had been brailed up in harbour gaskets.

“Thank you, Captain Lewrie,” Hughes replied, stiffly formal. “I would much appreciate it.”

“I’d also suppose we’re both bound to the Convent to report to General Dalrymple,” Lewrie went on, searching for something pleasant to say with the man while Desmond and his boat crew went down the man-ropes and battens to man one of the cutters. “He’ll be astounded t’see you, I’d imagine. Back from the dead, all that?”

“I would imagine so as well, sir,” Hughes said, “though he’s likely filled my old position as his aide, by now.”

“Yet, you sounded delighted to return to your regiment and its mess, your fellow officers,” Lewrie said.

“Oh, yes, that’ll be topping,” Hughes agreed.

“Though, you may give up your brevet promotion,” Lewrie simply had to say, to get a sly dig in.

“Yes, unfortunately,” Hughes said, scowling.

“Met a fellow once, a Lieutenant promoted to Commander and sent home with a prize,” Lewrie related, “but, Admiralty didn’t confirm his status, and he was stuck ashore, without a ship, and in a year’s worth of arrears t’pay Admiralty back the difference in pay.”

Hope the Army does the same, ye beef-to-the-heel lummox, he happily thought.

“Your boat is ma

“Very well, Mister Elmes,” Lewrie said, going to the lip of the entry-port to take the ritual of departure, doffing his hat to his crew, and the flag. Hughes carefully made his way down the side of the ship and thumped himself down on a thwart in the sternsheets nearby to Lewrie. A leather satchel was lowered down on a line, and a moment later, Mr. Deacon descended, right spryly, to take a seat between Pat Furfy, the larboard stroke-oar, and the starboard oarsman, facing the pair of them.

“Enjoy the voyage, did ye, Mister Deacon?” Lewrie asked him.

“Delightful, Captain Lewrie, thank you,” Deacon said, beaming his pleasure, and pointedly ignoring Major Hughes.

“Shove off, bow man,” Cox’n Desmond ordered. “Back-water, starboard.” He put his tiller hard over. “Poise … out oars, larboard. Now, stroke, all together now.”

“All in all, the results were most pleasing,” Lewrie said to Deacon. “Success for your business, and for mine.”

“Mister Mountjoy will be over the moon, sir,” Deacon agreed. “He’ll pass the news of the destruction of a French demi-brigade to London, and all the newspapers will pick it up. One might say that British arms won their first victory over France in Spain. A sign of things to come.”

“Hope they spell my name right,” Lewrie joshed.

“I’m of a mind to write Horse Guards of my adventures as well,” Major Hughes piped up, intrigued by the possibility of his account being published, of being “mentioned in despatches” and “Gazetted.”

“Your observations on the state of the Spanish army, sir?” Lewrie asked.

“A churlish lot,” Hughes barked in sour amusement. “The senior officers are clueless peacocks in grand uniforms, the junior officers are so loutish and lower class that the fine ladies of Málaga despise them, and their soldiers, rank and file, even in barracks, are slovenly sheep. Badly shod, if shod at all, most in sandals, I ask you! I believe if they have arms, they’re short of powder, if well-armed, they’re short of rations. Their army is a sad joke. They’ll stand no chance against the French, none at all. It’ll take a British army in Spain to beat the French.”

“Headed for the Convent, first, sir?” Deacon asked Lewrie.

“Aye, for a while, if Dalrymple has time for me. If not, I’ll go have di

“Dalrymple, then my quarters,” Hughes stated, though no one had really asked him. “Un-pack my stored chests, settle back in, and dine decent, for once.”

“Ye don’t think your fellow officers might’ve auctioned your goods off, do ye?” Lewrie teased. “I’ve heard it done.”

“They would not dare,” Hughes growled. “It’s not as if I’m dead!”

“In your long absence, sir,” Deacon said, addressing Hughes for the first time since their contretemps aboard ship, “might your Colonel have requested your replacement from England?” Deacon said it with a sobre face, but Lewrie had to bite his lip to keep from guffawing. “Can’t let a company be led by a subaltern, not for long.”

“Well, if one’s promoted to Brevet Captain…,” Lewrie mused, “but, I s’pose he can always revert back to bein’ a subaltern.”

“If they have promoted an officer to my old place, he’ll have to give it back, as soon as dammit,” Hughes asserted, growing testy with the trend the conversation was taking.

I’d wager they shoved you at Dalrymple as an aide ’cause they couldn’t bloody stand ye, Lewrie thought with evil delight.

“Slow stroke,” Cox’n Desmond ordered as the cutter approached the landing stage below the stone quays. “Ready with yer gaff, Deavers. Toss oars, all. Ehm, yair sittin’ on th’ aft dock loine, sor,” he said to Hughes. “Ya moind passin’ th’ coil t’me, Yer Honour, sor?”

Oh God, now Desmond’s mocking him, layin’ the “brogue” on as thick as treacle, Lewrie thought, feeling like sniggering.

Emulating naval protocol, Mr. Deacon was first out of the boat with his satchel, followed by Hughes, after Lewrie waved him to start. Lewrie exited last, and they all strolled up the wooden ramp to the top of the quays.

Oh, Christ! Lewrie thought; The cat’s outa the bag!

For not only was an eager Thomas Mountjoy on the quay to greet them, but so was Maddalena Covilhā, dressed in a summery pale blue sheath dress, with a gay bo

“Why, Maddalena!” Hughes exclaimed, holding out his arms as if she’d come for him. “M’dear! I’m back!”

Maddalena coyly danced right past him with barely a glance in his direction, went straight to Lewrie to plant a kiss on his cheek, and put her arms round him!

“You!” Hughes accused. “You?”

“Sim, him,” Maddalena said to Hughes with an impish expression.

“But…!” Hughes gargled.

“Me,” Lewrie told him.

“You are back, at last, meu querido,” she cooed to Lewrie.

“It’s grand t’see you, minha doce,” Lewrie cooed right back.

“Well, just goddammit,” Hughes growled, astounded, then stomped his way off.

Poor bastard, Lewrie gleefully thought; There’s no good news for him, or welcome, either! About what he deserves!

BOOK THREE

“Let there be light!” said God, and there was light!

“Let there be blood!” says man, and there’s a sea!